Summers
by diamontique
Summary: In 1774, Beatrice goes to New York City to visit her family. Hijinks ensue!
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This was written as a round robin fic - several people collaborated on the story, each writing a chapter! :) I wrote the first one.**

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><p>Two figures stood on a dock in Boston's wharf, looking out into the ocean. One was a tall man, with strikingly handsome features; the second figure was a young woman, and obviously smaller. The two looked to be in deep conversation, ignoring those in their periphery.<p>

"So, I guess this is the last time I'll be seeing you for a while," Beatrice said, shuffling her feet. "I'll be leaving tomorrow for New York City to stay for the entire summer, seeing my mother's family. I'll write you to you though – but I'm not sure anything exciting will happen."

Alan chuckled. "Exciting events or no, I'd still love to hear what happens to you. I hear New York is quite a different place than Boston," he said, and gestured his arm around the area to illustrate his point.

"Well, I hope they won't be _too_ terrible. It definitely won't be fun to be in a house full of sour-faced ninnies."

"Do you know anything about them?," Alan asked.

"Well, all I know is that my uncle is a well-known tailor who lives on Water Street, and that my cousin goes to King's College. Apparently my aunt is a socialite of sorts, from what I hear. So I suppose they aren't _so_ sour-faced," Beatrice replied with a shrug. Beatrice looked up and noticed the darkening sky and added, "I think I should be going now – my parents will wonder where I've been, and I have much packing to do. I'll see you when I come back in September."

Beatrice and Alan embraced, and she walked as fast as she could to her house, hoping she wouldn't be scolded for the umpteenth time for wandering about the city unescorted. Beatrice reached the front door and knocked, and quickly ran up the stair to her room as soon the maid opened it. She heaved a long sigh took off her sun hat, placing it on a table. Beatrice flopped on her bed and wondered about her upcoming visit to her family.

_What will they be like? Will they welcome me, or shun me? What about New York? Will I be lost in it – or be completely at home? _These and a million more thoughts swam in her head into the coming hours, invading her thoughts throughout dinner.

"Beatrice, I hope you know how important this visit will be," her mother said. "It's good to establish contact between family members, especially with all these terrible events occurring. Family should always come first before all else, isn't that right James?"

Beatrice's father spoke, "I wholeheartedly agree. It's also a good opportunity to see places outside of Boston – I hear New York is a completely different world!"

Beatrice had heard these conversations countless times in the coming weeks of her trip, as if to constantly remind her about how important everything was. She had learned to block everything out, saying "of course" and "u-huh" to show she was somewhat engaged in the conversation. One topic, however, piqued her attention.

Beatrice's father continued, "I hear they have a guest staying at their house – a student from the West Indies, I believe. He goes to King's College with John – your cousin. You may possibly get to meet him Beatrice."

Beatrice hadn't heard this before. Now she was more intrigued than ever. Who was this mysterious student?

"What's his name?," she asked, trying not to sound to curious.

"All I know is that his name is Alexander Hamilton. He seems to be quite a bright fellow, from what your uncle Hercules has written of him." Her father added, "And before you ask me anything more, do know that it is all I know of the young man. Your uncle was uncharacteristically vague on the matter."

"Maybe he wants it to be a surprise," her mother added.

"Possibly," her father concluded, and with that the conversation changed to more mundane topics. Beatrice was lost in thought over the revelation she just had. Her visit to New York might have become much more interesting.

When she went to sleep, she dreamed of a huge, thriving city, with blank faced people everywhere.

The days of her travel were uneventful. It took a whole week to get from Boston to New York, and the inns were nothing remarkable. All Beatrice had to keep herself occupied were copies of _Pamela_ and _Clarissa _a friend had given her for her fifteenth birthday and her thoughts. When she had finished reading both the books, she often daydreamed about the city, her family, and the mysterious guest. However, she noticed the change of scenery as the carriage neared its destination. The closer she got to the city, the more urban it became. She passed by villages, farms, and towns; by the time she reached her destination, she could spy an urban sprawl, dotted with houses and ships and docks, full of people – possibly even more than Boston. There were definitely more types of people here – she saw people of all colors and creeds, quite different from the homogenous society of Boston. The carriage finally came to a stop in front of a modest house on Water Street. She stepped out as the servants carried her belongings into the house, and looked around her.

The streets were much more crowded, and it was definitely noisy. There were so many people walking and speaking to each other, in different languages and sounds she couldn't understand. She stood in awe of what she saw until she heard a noise behind her. She turned and saw a tall, rotund man who appeared to be her father's age, and had reddish gray hair with twinkling blue eyes. He was well dressed, and looked the kind of man who always had a surprise up his sleeves.

He went to Beatrice and said, "Hello, Beatrice! I'm so glad to have met you. I'm your uncle Hercules, as you know, and I will be more than happy to be your host." He took Beatrice's hand and kissed it. "Let me show you the family."

He escorted her through a hallway to a parlor, and sitting there were a woman and two young men. All of them were equally well dressed. One of the young men didn't look too overjoyed to be there and was slouching, while the other looked perfectly at ease. The woman-her aunt- looked like her mother, but had a more handsome look to her chestnut hair and green eyes. She looked at Beatrice and walked towards her. "Good day to you, Beatrice. I'm your aunt Elizabeth. I hope your journey went well."

"It did, ma'am." Beatrice was suddenly tongue tied. She added hesitantly, "New York is very different from Boston."

This earned a laugh from both Hercules and Elizabeth. Hercules motioned for Beatrice to sit on the sofa, which she gladly sat on, even if it was too stiff for her taste. She noticed that the parlor was well built, and was fashionable, and saw a family portrait on the opposite wall, over the mantle. The slouching young man stood up and walked towards where Beatrice sat. He looked like a younger version of Hercules with his strawberry hair and blue eyes, and Beatrice deduced that he was her cousin. He looked rather embarrassed, and said, "Hello Beatrice. I'm your cousin, John. I hope you have a pleasant stay." He quickly grasped her hand and walked quietly back to where he sat.

"Now that you have met the family," Hercules said, "I suppose you should meet another guest of ours. Beatrice, may I introduce you to Alexander Hamilton."


	2. Chapter 2

Beatrice's Point of View

The young man my uncle introduced me to walked over to me. He was tall, with brown hair that had the slightest red tint to it. His skin was tan, with a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and prominent cheekbones. His eyes were a pleasant blue-gray, his nose a touch turned upwards, and his mouth wide. At the moment even wider with the smile he gave me!

I extended my hand and said "It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Hamilton."

He took my hand, bowed to me, and kissed the former, "The pleasure Miss Whaley, is all mine."

I blushed and looked down as he released my hand. I withdrew my hand to my lap and clasped it with the other, "Will you be staying here long, Mr. Hamilton?"

Mr. Hamilton's face contorted into an expression of mock hurt, "Why, Miss Whaley, do you tire of me after a mere introduction? I had hoped to learn more of you, but if you wish I will go…" He heaved a dramatic sigh and turned to John.

As I recalled, this was something Dr. Warren, often did for the amusement of Betsy and Jose. That being said, my mouth went ahead of my mind and I said "No!" When I realized I'd spoken too quickly, and too loudly, I added "What I mean to say is, do not leave on my account. I was merely curious as to the length of your stay, I am far from tired of you." I saw John hide a laugh, that is when I realized how my last sentence sounded. I turned a shade of red I thought impossible for a human to turn, "I- I- I mean-"

God saved me from further embarrassment by the dinner bell being rung. I sighed, and stood as my aunt did. My uncle held his arm out to my aunt, and they started towards the dinning room. Mr. Hamilton held his arm out to me, I (somehow), blushed deeper and took it. We followed our hosts as John followed us, sulking all the way.

The rest of the day passed, uneventful as that of one at home. I found my family quite pleasant, and Mr. Hamilton charming. Eventually the time came for us to retire, so Uncle Hercules had a slave named Cato show me to my quarters.

I followed the young man to my room. He opened the door, bowed, and said "Goodnight Miss."

I walked into my room, and looked around, though I barely noted how it appeared. I saw what I sought, the writing desk. I sighed with relief, and brought a candle over to it. I sat, found a quill, paper and ink. I began to write a letter to Alan. It went as thus:

_Dear Mr. W,_

_ Today I arrived at my family's home, where I received a kind and warm welcome from my aunt and uncle. They are, from the knowledge I have gained, kindhearted individuals. Though my cousin, John, seems to be somewhat…colder. He acted entirely indifferent to me unless forced into conversation by my aunt._

_ As my parents informed me, there is another young man staying with my relatives. His name is Hamilton. Mr. H is possessed of a charming, though flirtatious, nature. He somehow balances in himself the manners of Claudio, with the air of Oberon! It makes him seem a genteel peacock in my eyes._

_ I write this letter bluntly, as I know I may only do because you are the one in whom I confide. Mr. W, Alan, I'm afraid I am somewhat taken with Mr. H. I beg you, do not tear this letter apart as you read it; my feelings are still in your favor, no matter what my father may think of you. It has been a mere week, and how I miss you. I wish I were home, sitting under the apple trees with you and Betsy and Jose, just watching the day pass by._

_ Already I yearn for the simplicity of it. Here, in New York, it is crowded and noisy. I barely know where to look, and feel an actor on stage who knows naught their part._

_ It is late, and I am rambling like an old maid. Give my love to Betsy, Jose, Joseph, and the rest of your family._

_ Yours,_

_ B.W._

I folded the letter, sighed, and addressed it to Alan. Either he would think me mad, or he would suspect my uncle of serving excess of wine. I laughed quietly, then I changed, and went to bed.

I suppose it was the influence of the city, but that night my dreams were so strange. I wandered around in, what seemed to be, my undergarments. I remember there were bright, noisy, _moving_, pictures! It all so strange that I woke myself from slumber. I calmed myself as the church bell announced the time was two, then I fell back asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Beatrice Whaley was, by all means, a girl unlike most girls of her time. In a time when it was improper for her sex to waltz around the town, unattended by a man in their family, Beatrice often induced many a scandalous gasp going around town on her own at _night_, as well as day. Also, when most girls were trusted to tell the truth and nothing but, she had a strange fascination with lying, and she was by far the most convincing liar. As a child, she would tell her cousin John of the mysterious red-skinned cannibal that ate little boys who bothered their female cousins. She would show him the bones of a dead animal and claim it was the bone of a boy-child such as he, and then sneak outside his bedroom window at night and create screeching noises simply to make him believe her (and believe her he did). To this day, Beatrice still wove wild stories that people still, amazingly, believed, despite the fact that she did less to try to prove her stories. Beatrice, though she wouldn't admit it to anybody, loved to lie. But what was remarkable about her skill in the untruth was her ability to think of these fantastical fabrications. Her imagination was great—so great, she often found herself lost in worlds and adventures nobody else could see. And she created them _all_. Just the way she liked to use her lies to entertain herself, Beatrice also amused herself with those worlds and adventures she created. Most were inspired by the books her Uncle Hercules would buy her, where a plucky heroine would save a potential lover from a tragic death, or a brilliant man would solve an unsolvable crime. She would make herself a plucky heroine with a brilliant mind and go on a journey no one else has ever gone to before.

Reality, however, is a strong force in the world, and most times, her lies and adventures would be shattered by it.

From the house on Water Street (which Uncle Hercules proclaimed as 'too small' for the growing group), Beatrice was whisked away by her Uncle's family to their grand estate just outside New York, a two hour carriage ride away. The Whaley girl was very horrified upon being notified that they weren't taking the things she had initially brought with her, and were instead going to, as Uncle Hercules called it, 'wing it'. But, upon arrival, all her anxieties melted away. The house she was sent away to was grander than her parents' estate. The plot her Uncle's land stood upon was around two hundred acres. The mansion was made of brown bricks, with white stone pillars and borders and black roofing, with dark ivy snaking ever so slowly over its walls. There were two floors, ten bedrooms, three baths, a large kitchen, two dining rooms (one for grand parties and a smaller one for the family), three parlors, and various other rooms with no real designated use. There was also a beautiful garden behind the main mansion, with a maze and a humble marble water fountain. There was a smaller house built on the property which was to be given to Beatrice's cousin John upon his marriage, though currently, it served as a guest house.

As her first week came and went, Beatrice made it a point to explore the lands she was to stay in for the next six months. Uncle Hercules paid little attention to the fact that she was unattended, though her Aunt did verbally disapprove. Beatrice, however, ignored her and continued on her merry way, going into every room, squeezing herself and her enlarged skirt through every crevice and hole she could. John and Mr. Hamilton, as she called him, were busy with their 'manly deeds' (cavorting with random ladies in the city, in other words) or college, though the previous would be more likely. Her Uncle often was out from morning to nightfall with business, and her Aunt spent her day paying visits or having visits paid at her home, which left Beatrice with no one to converse with and none in her way.

One day on her second week, Beatrice was riding on a white pony she borrowed from the stables, her body weary from hiking around in the tight cage it was forced into. She was riding through an untouched part of her Uncle's land, which he planned to sell someday in hopes of developing some sort of farm or farming community, alone, as usual. The skies above were gray, as they would be back home in Boston, but the sun managed to peek through the clouds every once in a while. Though weary and rather hungry, Beatrice had no want to return to her Uncle's home. Instead, she decided upon riding her horse around this unexplored area a few times, letting the fresh air numb all her other senses instead of suffer the wrath of the perfumed menaces in dresses back _there_.

Some thick-forest areas had not yet been cleared out in her Uncle's land, a fact that did not intimidate the adventurous Whaley-girl in the slightest. Though everyone else feared them, Beatrice actually _wanted_ to meet some of these vicious, cannibalistic red-skins. After all, surely they wouldn't harm a plucky young heroine as she, in her white dress, her white pony, and her lovely plump hat? No, they wouldn't. Instead, they would all surround her and converse with her, as proper people, and tell her all the magical secrets of their land, which they would teach her to use and manipulate to her will.

Or perhaps, the Indians _would_ be as vicious as the newspapers her papa often read made them out to be. They would attack her, and they would do so by jumping out of the small forests nearby, screaming and shouting in their ugly native language, shooting arrows and throwing rocks and heaven-knows-what. Beatrice would then narrowly miss, maneuver her horse in a most dangerous, un-ladylike way, and then ride off to safety and tell all what has just happened. Then later on, her Uncle's house would fall under attack. The Indians would want her, Beatrice, the one who had escaped their savage ambush, and she would sacrifice herself to save her family. Then she would escape in a most heroic way, and the authorities would come and save her and there would be a glorious parade…

"Oh, now, Beatrice," she said to herself as she peered at the forests around her. "It doesn't seem likely that any wild men should be waiting for you there. Surely they would have come out by now." Surely they would have, upon seeing such a shining and obvious target in the middle of an empty field, unguarded and weaponless. But, the house and its garden was not even a mile away—in fact, it would only be a ten-minute trot back, and a five-second gallop away for Beatrice. Should she want to face danger, she would have to delve deeper into the plot of land. However, even for a 'plucky heroine' as she, Beatrice was not going to do that, no matter what notion she had deluded herself into.

To make sure no wild men were coming out, Beatrice rode around a few more times, inched a bit farther away from her Uncle's mansion, then gave up and decided to return home. Beatrice turned her horse around.

Just then, she heard a piercing, unintelligible shout coming from behind her. The horse was unfazed by the sudden noise, but Beatrice let out a scream and looked over her shoulder. From a nearby thicket of trees came this light-haired man, shirtless, with brown, ripped trousers and red paint all over his bare skin. He had a large rock in his hand, and a crazed-yet-angry look on his face. Beatrice screamed once more and tried to get her horse to gallop, but she was sitting side-saddle, and it only trotted when someone sat that way on it. The strange, wild man was very close now, and Beatrice, her heart pounding, eyes wide, jumped off of the horse and began to run as fast as she could towards the house. "HELP! HELP! HE'S CHASING ME! SOMEONE, HELP ME!"

Being a lady was the worst when being chased, for a lady had plenty of chance to fall. And that was just what Beatrice did not even three feet away from her horse. Upon landing with a thump and a yelp, the guttural shouts coming from the wild man turned in whoops of laughter—a laughter Beatrice recognized. She pushed herself up slightly and looked over her shoulder to see that the wild-man was simply her stupid, horrid cousin covered in red-paint, half-indecent, with his straw-blond hair loose. "Oh, dear gods, you should have seen your face! You were even _paler_ than before, you know that? Oh, haha! I shall never forget this."

"Oh, John, you are simply HORRID. HORRID, I say!" Upon getting up, Beatrice wished she had somehow hurt herself. Perhaps broken her leg or her arm. Perhaps, even her neck, just to show John what a horrid person he was. It would have been amazing if she had died in some tragic way upon her fall, so that John would be forever cursed with the memory of killing his sweet, dear, lady-like cousin. But no. The only thing that was hurt was Beatrice's pride.

It was totally shattered upon the appearance of Mr. Hamilton on a gallant steed. "Ah. I see that you had indeed gone through with your foolishness, John," he said, a smile in his eyes, but a frown upon his lips. He eyed Beatrice, perhaps checking for injury, before inquiring, "Are you all right, Miss Whaley?"

Beatrice glared at her cousin, and in a moment's notice whipped up some tears. John immediately stopped laughing. "Oh, I do not think so. There is a terrible ache on my leg, and I do fear I have hurt it in some way."

"Have you now?" Mr. Hamilton asked, raising a brow. Beatrice cried out, eyes closed, and nodded.

"Oh, it is terrible! It is more painful than anything else I have felt before!"

"Beatrice…hey, I didn't mean to—

Beatrice sobbed, limping towards her horse, which had stopped in place in the midst of all this. "Oh, woe is me! My poor leg! I fear I shall never have a lovely leg _again_." Mr. Hamilton could not hide his amusement and watched as Beatrice pathetically fell against her horse, tears streaming down her face. "I shall have to tell Uncle about this injury, and I fear he shall have to send me home!"

"W-what?" John's eyes widened in alarm. "N-no! You cannot tell my father!"

"Oh, but I must!" Beatrice leaned against her horse. Mr. Hamilton could have sworn it made a face. "It hurts, John, so very, very, _very _much."

"Ah! Is that blood I see, seeping down to the ground from your leg?" Mr. Hamilton remarked, pointing at her feet. John put a hand on his mouth, searching the ground all around Beatrice. "It looks very bad indeed. We should return to your home immediately, John, and report this."

Beatrice would have smiled upon the discovery of this ally, but continued her ruse. "Oh, my leg!"

"W-wait! You can't tell my father!"

"And why not?" Mr. Hamilton asked, tilting his head in mock curiosity.

"He's going to… punish me in some severe way!"

"What? Oh, but John this is serious!" Beatrice proclaimed. "If I do not tell anyone, I shall have my leg cut off!"

"NO! YOU CAN'T TELL MY FATHER!"

"Th-then I s-suppose… that in exchange for my silence, you shall have to serve me, hand and foot."

John looked at Beatrice with a blank expression on his face. "E-excuse me?"

"You heard me." Beatrice sniffed. "My leg. It is hurt because of _you_. And I shall tell Uncle Hercules—

"No! You can't!"

"…unless you serve me, hand and foot."

"What?"

"At least, until my leg heals."

"And with the severity of her wound," Mr. Hamilton added. "It doesn't look like it would heal for a long time…"

"Yes."

John frowned. "No! I will _not_ serve Beatrice! Never! I will never, ever bow down to a _woman_!"

"Then I shall tell Uncle Hercules." Beatrice let out a pathetic wail, wrapped an arm around her horse's neck, then proceeded to limp alongside it towards the mansion. "Oh, woe is me! My leg has been hurt badly because of my cousin…"

John's heart would have stopped. He could only imagine the kind of horrible punishments his uncle would have in store for him should Beatrice tell. "Wait! No! All right, fine, I'll do it!"

Beatrice sniffed and eyed her cousin with tear-filled eyes. "You will?" She asked ever so softly.

"Yes. I will. Just… don't tell Uncle." Beatrice's pout was immediately replaced by a smile.

"AH! Fantastic." She wiped away her tears and clapped her hands. "Then your first order is to carry me all the way back to the mansion."

"What?"

"You heard me. Now, come on and pick me up. We have quite a distance to go…"

_A peculiar young lady_, Mr. Hamilton thought as he watched John, his face bright red, pick up his cousin in his arms and slowly walk towards the mansion. He rode beside them, taking note of every detail so he would never forget this day, and decided that out of all women he had ever met, Beatrice Whaley was perhaps the most unforgettable, and he had not even know her for a full day.


	4. Chapter 4

"Very good, John. That will do." He had carried Beatrice up to the door of the house itself, before carefully setting her back on the ground.

"I don't believe you have really hurt your leg at all." He sniffed sullenly.

Beatrice didn't answer, save for a very put-upon and tragic sigh, followed by heavily exaggerated limping into the house. She was followed by Mr. Hamilton, and John was certain that he heard a stifled chuckle from his fellow college student.

"That's _it!_" John huffed, storming inside and grabbing Beatrice by the shoulder. "Show me this 'grave injury' of yours!"

Beatrice put a hand to her mouth, looking scandalized. "That would be _most_ improper, dear cousin! What – what would your _father_ say?"

"_Speaking_ of which," Hamilton noted pointedly before John could reply, "It seems to be getting close to evening. I imagine that Mr. and Mrs. Mulligan will be arriving soon." He glanced toward John, still clad only in trousers and smeared red paint. "You might want to change, before they get home. Unless, of course, they are accustomed to such displays from you." He nodded gravely, the upturned corners of his mouth the only sign of his immense amusement.

John shot a worried glance out the window before rushing away, pausing only to shoot a glare back at Hamilton, griping, "Of course you would take her side!" Then he was gone, away upstairs.

There was a brief moment of silence following his departure, followed by uncontrollable laughter from both Beatrice and Mr. Hamilton. "So," Beatrice finally choked, "I must thank you for –" She tried her best swallow a new wave of laughs. "For so _gallantly _coming to my aid against my loathsome cousin."

"Think nothing of it, dear lady." he replied, giving a grand bow. "I consider it my greatest duty to save distressed damsels such as –"

"There's no need for calling names!"

"Let's face it, Miss Whaley, you have quite the powerful yell."

She held up her hands grinning broadly. "You make your point. Though I did most of the saving myself."

Mr. Hamilton smiled. "Indeed." He glanced out of the window, before turning back to Beatrice and announcing, "I'm afraid that I must now be off."

"Oh... so you plan to 'study', then?" She tilted her head skeptically.

"You doubt it? I do, actually, attend a college. If you haven't forgotten."

Beatrice shook her head as he walked away, out the door. _No doubt to flirt with some girls,_ she thought stubbornly. _Studying, my foot. He didn't ever take any books._ She rolled her eyes, before going outside herself. Perhaps she could find some nice apple tree to climb, and think about Mr. Warren.

She soon found herself in the orchard, and began wandering. She had to find a suitable tree. She walked by row after row, checking. This one was far too crooked. _It had to be straight and tall. _The next had thin, weak branches. _It had to be supportive and strong. _Tree after tree she walked past, but none felt right to her. She reached the end of the row. She looked back, sighing, before slowly walking away.

The air was sweet with the last of the spring blossoms. They showered her with petals as she walked beneath them, breathing in their scent. She leaned against the rough bark of a plum tree, closing her eyes...

The shadows were growing long when she again opened her eyes. She found herself sitting on the ground, back supported against the tree. She stood up slowly, brushing petals from her skirt. It was now most definitely evening, with the whole estate shrouded in cool blue light. She looked toward the house, where the lit windows glowed yellow. _Uncle Hercules and Aunt Elizabeth are probably both home now, _she thought. _I hope that they are not worried about me. _With that thought in mind, she began a brisk walk back.

She opened the door. "Hello?" She called hesitantly.

"Beatrice!" Elizabeth called, rushing to the front hall. "Where _were_ you?"

Her tone was anxious and, Beatrice noted sourly, edged with a trace of accusation. She kept a mellow tone, though, replying, "I was out for a walk in the orchard. I'm afraid, though, that I seem to have fallen asleep; I'm quite embarrassed, really."

"Oh! Oh. That's fine." Elizabeth relaxed, face brightening visibly. "That's perfectly alright."

Beatrice tilted her head to the side, curious. "Aunt Elizabeth... what did you think I was doing?"

"Nothing!" Her aunt responded, face reddening. "Nothing at all! I was just worried, you see, what with you not being here, and no note or sign of you... and Mr. Hamilton gone as well..."

Beatrice flushed. "No – ah, just walking. M-Mr. Hamilton left to – to study, he said, I believe..."

"Well, then... that's fine then!" She smiled brightly. "Do you think," she said quickly, face melting into worry, "that it is terribly improper to house Mr. Hamilton with you here? We could –"

"No, no, It is, ah, fine. Really." Beatrice smiled uncomfortably, before pointedly concluding. "There will _not_ be any problems with the arrangement. I _promise_."

"If you're certain, then." Elizabeth smiled, reassured.

At that moment the door opened, and Hercules brushed into the room. "Good evening," he said, taking off his boots. "What a night! The streets were clogged with some student rally, the 'Sons of Lib-" he looked up, glancing at the reddened faces of his wife and niece. "Is something the matter?"

"No! Nothing at all!" Elizabeth said quickly. "So, shall I have dinner put on?"

"That sounds wonderful." he said, looking skeptically from Elizabeth to Beatrice, before shrugging and walking away.

Hamilton had come back just later, after Beatrice was long gone from the hall. That night, at dinner, she couldn't bring herself to even look at him, instead staring at her lap. When dinner was over, and the dishes were being taken to the sink, he came up to her.

"Is something the matter, Miss Whaley? You seem keen to avoid me."

"N-no! Nothing at all. So, how were your studies?"

"Really, have I offended you?"

"No. You have not." She looked down.

"But..." Hamilton pushed.

"But I feel that I was rather informal with you today. And I don't believe that this should be repeated." She thought back to Elizabeth's worried face. "It isn't proper."

Hamilton tilted his head to one side. "Fair enough. I didn't know that you were one to care about what was 'proper' or not."

Beatrice looked down. "Given the circumstances, it seems _very_ important."

Hamilton smiled. "So long as we understand each other," he said mildly, dipping in a low bow before walking away.

"Wait!" She called after him. He turned back toward her in surprise, one eyebrow raised. "I..." she continued, "I do have one question for you."

"Alright."

"If you were going to study, why did you not take any books or papers?"

Hamilton smiled, looking outside. "There are many types of study, Miss Whaley." Outside, the Mulligans' Union Flag drooped in the slackening wind. "Especially in these turbulent times, there are many different ways of learning what you need to know. Good night, Miss Whaley."

Beatrice watched him as he sauntered off, vaguely worried about his words. But whatever he had been doing was _his_ problem, not hers. And she wasn't really interested, anyway.

Not at all.


	5. Chapter 5

"I heard there is to be a ball held at the Murray's estate Friday evening." Aunt Elizabeth said to Beatrice as she poked around in her French style armoire where her dresses hung in neat rows. She paused at one silky blue dress, pulled it out, and then shook her head. "I am afraid this dress will not answer, it is worn almost thin." She placed the dress carefully back in the armoire, and then continued her search. After minutes of fruitless searching, she sighed and drew away from the armoire. "I suppose there is nothing for it but to take a trip to the dressmaker to buy me a new dress."She shut the doors to the armoire and then appraised her. "You should accompany me. I am certain you have not brought suitable attire for such an occasion." She smiled warmly at Beatrice. "Besides, it will give us ladies a chance to relieve the boredom of sitting in this house all day, and I would love the opportunity to spend some time with my niece."

Beatrice smiled back. Truthfully, she was quite bored. Although she was not one to truly enjoy long hours of fittings and measurements for dresses, it was certainly an improvement on staying here and having her bothersome cousin bepester her constantly. "I believe it is a capital idea, Aunt Elizabeth!" She said with delight. Her aunt bustled to her chest of drawers where a fashionable straw hat sat upon the top. She picked it up and fastened the lavender ribbon behind her carefully coiled bun of hair. She then smoothed her dress and pinched her cheeks. Satisfied that her appearance was acceptable to a degree; she turned to Beatrice. "Well, then. Shall we?" She asked as she offered Beatrice her arm.

Beatrice linked her arm in hers and arm-in-arm they swept gracefully down the stairs. "Delia!" A servant ran up from a bedchamber where she was airing the linen and curtsied. "Yes, miss?" "Tell Hercules we have left to pay a visit to the dressmaker's shop." She curtsied again. "Yes, miss."

"Lovely!" Aunt Elizabeth exclaimed as she pirouetted in the dress she was currently trying on. It was a silk dress of deep lavender, opened up in front to reveal a red petticoat. Two huge lavender ribbons bedecked her elbows. The edges of the dress were of the finest white silk, and the dress gleamed with a becoming radiance.

Beatrice glanced in the full-length looking glass at her appearance. The dress she currently was trying on matched her perfectly. It was as green as the grass surrounding a New England countryside in the spring. It was ruffled in the front, and a multitude of intricate woven designs were patterned throughout like flowers in a flower garden. Like her aunt's, her dress had the finest silk.

"These are recently imported from Paris." One of the seamstresses commented.

"We will buy them." Aunt Elizabeth announced, thoroughly satisfied with the dresses.

Once they had paid, they stepped outside to the bustling city of New York and began the walk back to their house. By now, it was after midday, and the sun was dropping in the blue, chimney-smoke filled sky. They maneuvered around puddles, excrement from horses, and tried their best to avoid the calamity of being run over by fast driving carriages.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a wagon pounded down the street, careening out of control. The horse's eyes were wild and wide with fear. Steam blew out of its nostrils as the massive beast heaved with exertion. "I can't stop the wagon!" The driver yelled, waving at people to get out of the way. People screamed and ran out of harm's way, dragging their children and dropping their belongings. Beatrice pushed her Aunt Elizabeth aside, and was about ready to make a run for it herself. By then, however, it was too late. The wagon would be on top of her at any moment. Beatrice closed her eyes and braced herself for the impact.

Then, as if she was dreaming, a man scooped her up and ran towards the safety of a building. Beatrice felt a slight breeze as the wagon passed harmlessly by, nicking neither of them. The man put her down as soon as they reached the safety of a nearby building. Beatrice smoothed her dress and tried to still her fast beating heart. She then turned to identify her rescuer. Hamilton's eyes met hers.

"Are you hurt Miss Whaley?"Beatrice shook her head no. "I am just disconcerted from my near death experience."

Hamilton grasped her hand and kissed it. "It seems, Miss Whaley; that I always find myself in the leading role as your protector."

Beatrice's aunt interrupted them before she could offer a reply. "Thank you Hamilton for rescuing my niece."

Hamilton bowed at the waist slightly and tipped his hat. "It was my pleasure."He then turned to leave.

"Wait." Hamilton stopped and turned back to us at the sound of Aunt Elizabeth's voice. "Are you attending the ball at the Murray's Friday night?"

Hamilton flashed a charming grin. "Why yes, indeed I am. I would not miss an opportunity to become acquainted with the beautiful ladies of New York." He gave Beatrice a sly, side-long glance. "And besides, I will need to attend in order to ensure that Miss Whaley here will not require my assistance." He bowed again, and then strolled down the street, whistling.

Beatrice smiled as she resumed her walk. Hamilton was such a pleasant fellow, and well-mannered. She would be forever grateful to him for saving her life today.


	6. Chapter 6

The slave Cato offered his hand to Beatrice as she stepped down from the carriage. She accepted it politely, but continued to puzzle over the odd dreams she'd had the night before: watching Cato partake in some kind of… battle? …game? Fitted in the usual style of breeches, but topped with bulky shirtsleeves and something resembling a Grecian helmet. She had been cheering his skill along with a raucous crowd of other young women. Odd.

Beatrice shook it off quickly and paused to admire the grand façade of Inclenberg, the Murrays' far-from-modest home. "Beautiful Hill" was the perfect name. Set on the peak elevation of 29 acres of farmland, the house offered sweeping views of the East River and – Uncle Hercules pointed – Kips Bay. It would have been easy to stand on the piazza all night and watch the setting sun turn the water to gold, but the sound of laughter and music drew the Mulligan party through the wide front doors.

"Hercules… Elizabeth… How wonderful of you to join us this evening!" A stately, solidly-built woman draped in rose-colored silk bustled her way across the entrance hall to the newly-arrived guests. With her silver hair piled high and a broad sweep of welcoming arms, Mrs. Mary Murray easily commanded attention, even among the high ceilings and grand staircase. The Mulligans greeted her warmly – John with some thinly-disguised distaste, as if encountering an overbearing great-aunt – and Hamilton paid her due respect with doffed hat and a deep bow.

"And this is our niece, Beatrice Whaley," offered Elizabeth. "She is staying with us for the summer, recently arrived from her family's home in Boston."

"Indeed?" Mary arched an eyebrow. "And how do you find New York, Miss Whaley?"

Beatrice curtsied in greeting and replied, "Very welcoming, Mrs. Murray. Much busier, and so many… _different_ people. I quite enjoy it!"

"Yes," said a voice at the Mulligans' backs, "New York does encourage a variety of differences. Differences of opinion, for example…"

The group turned to see a gentleman leaning in the parlor doorway, a glass of Madeira in his hand. He had the same dignified air as Mary Murray, but a more piercing gaze.

"Ah, Robert!" Hercules smiled and offered his hand. "Your home is lovely this evening. Thank you for your hospitality. I trust business is going well?"

Robert Murray sipped his wine. "For the moment. So long as the New York shipping lanes don't draw any undue attention. Forgive me, Miss Whaley," he continued with a thin smile. "Boston's reputation precedes you."

Hamilton drew himself up and frowned. "I assure you, Mr. Murray, that Miss Whaley keeps with the finest of company."

"Look to yourself, Mr. Hamilton," Murray answered. "You and Mr. Mulligan have been spending quite a bit of time at the Fraunces Tavern lately. Shouldn't you be concentrating on your studies?"

Elizabeth and Mary exchanged fretful glances as Hercules cleared his throat. Hamilton's hand closed around Beatrice's elbow and gently steered her toward the large drawing room, into which John was already making his escape. They were quickly enveloped by the warmth of a candle-lit chandelier, smiling faces, and twirling bodies.

Beatrice barely had a moment to catch her breath before Hamilton swung her into a line of dancers. Hands caught hands, elbows locked, feet spun – the quick passing of faces made Beatrice dizzy, but dizzy with delight! She laughed in sheer joy, and continued to laugh even as the music ended.

Mr. Hamilton stood before her, lightly holding her hands. The firelight softened the lines of his face, and his smile, while still broad, had lost its usual smugness. The couples around them began to call for another song, but Hamilton barely noticed. One of his thumbs lightly caressed her fingers.

The flush finally caught up to Beatrice's face. "What?" she asked softly. Hamilton leaned forward, his breath against her cheek, and…

"Again?" Music burst from the corners of the room, Hamilton stepped back into the crowd, and pulled the laughing, gasping young woman with him.

"Oh heavens, help me!" Beatrice flopped down in a side chair, in an exhausted heap of green silk. Her feet tingled from one too many reels. The two girls sitting on either side of her giggled sympathetically.

"Mr. Hamilton has certainly laid claim to you this evening," observed the dark-haired one. "If you have any desire to share…"

"Take him, please!" Beatrice gasped with a wave of her hand. The gentleman was insatiable when it came to dancing. Fortunately for her feet, he was also unable to commit to just one partner for more than an hour. She caught glimpses of his auburn hair weaving amongst the crowd and did her best not to be noticed again right away.

The blonde-haired girl to her other side scoffed. "Beulah, you couldn't dance your way out of a box. I don't know why Mother even insists on the lessons."

Beulah pouted. "Your accompaniment leaves much to be desired, Susie." She leaned into Beatrice and whispered loudly, "When she sings, birds flock… in the _opposite_ direction!"

Both girls were only able to hold their scowls for mere seconds, before dissolving into giggles again. Beatrice looked back and forth between the two, noting similarities: same high foreheads, rounded chins, solid builds. Susie sported freckles across the bridge of her nose, but despite that, they were obviously related. And the arch of their eyebrows was familiar.

"Are you Murrays?" she asked, sweeping gentility aside.

They took no offence at the question. "We are!" declared Susie, striking a mockingly regal pose. "Welcome to our humble dwelling, Miss – "

"Whaley."

"From Boston?" Beulah positively squeaked. "We'd heard you were in town! Please…" Both sisters drew nearer. "Tell us about Boston."

Beatrice wondered. It's filthy? It's poor? It's angry? Where to start?

Susie glanced around at the crowd, then back. "Father is furious with the Whigs for endangering his livelihood – he's in shipping, you know. He worked years to build a reputation, and" she waved a hand around at the ornate room, "all this."

Beatrice nodded, thinking, _And some livelihoods grow on trees._

Beulah bit her lip. "But we've met so many who agree with the rebels, and they are just as concerned about making a living, having a home. Mother reminds us of that often. Not around Poppa, of course."

The three girls watched the dancers for a moment in silence.

Susie turned to Beatrice with a frown. "Are they foolish, Miss Whaley? The rebels?"

Beatrice smoothed her dress and straightened a bit. She looked around at the laughing faces, hands clasping and letting go, bodies interweaving and partners interchanging. _Chaos…_

"They're some of the bravest people I know." Couples returning to their original partners, lines reforming. _…Returning to order._

Beatrice closed her eyes, losing herself in the memories. "There's a doctor in Boston, Dr. Joseph Warren. He is considered one of the most dangerous rebels around, but he can speak kindly with anyone. Whether they agree with him or not. He couldn't do that if he were a fool."

The music ended.

"Dr. Warren spoke at the Massacre anniversary a couple of years ago. My father never would have let me go, but I've since read his speech in the papers. One line I remember: _Stain not the glory of your worthy ancestors; but, like them, resolve never to part with your birthright: be wise in your deliberations, and determined in your exertions for the preservation of your liberties_."

She smiled and opened her eyes. "Wise and determined. If that's all I could be, it would be enough."

Susie and Beulah nodded.

Suddenly, a pair of shadows fell across the three girls, and they looked up, alarmed. Mr. Hamilton stood over them, joined by John. John sighed resignedly and offered his hand to Beatrice, who gave it a sour look. "Forgive me, Mr. Mulligan," she said pertly. "My leg is still a bit sore."

With a huff, John switched his hand to Beulah, who practically lifted him airborne in her haste to reach the dance floor. Hamilton grinned and presented himself to young Susie. Beatrice sighed and sank back in her chair to watch the dance once more.

The moon had turned the river from gold to silver. The Mulligan party stood on the piazza, waiting for their carriage to arrive, joined by Mrs. Murray and her two girls. Other guests drifted past, calling their thanks and farewells.

The tired hostess shook her head. "Mr. Mulligan, my apologies again for Robert's behavior. Everything has been turned on end, as of late."

Hercules patted the gracious woman's hand. "Mary, please don't give it a second thought. We're all hoping this will turn out for the best."

Beatrice stood at the railing, gazing off over the hills. Only a few weeks into the summer, and it had seemed a lifetime. New friends, new foes, unexpected adventures… The uproar of Boston life would almost seem restful. Even in this serene landscape, she found herself aching for home.

Hamilton appeared at her shoulder. "So let's see," came his familiar drawl. "I've saved your life, defended your honor, proved that I can dance with the best of them." He ticked the points off on his fingers and grinned with satisfaction. "What's left?"

"The flower gardens are beautiful," Beatrice mumbled distractedly, "but why don't the Murrays farm the rest of the land?" She looked around the remainder of Inclenberg's acreage, a few outbuildings scattered across the hill but little in the way of livestock, no tilled fields. No orchards.

Her companion shrugged. "Too much ledge. Stone, boulders… it's hard to work around that."

"That's never stopped New Englanders from trying. You want rocks, Mr. Hamilton, check out the soil in Massachusetts."

"Who needs a farm when you have the rest?" Hamilton pulled on his gloves as the carriage turned up the drive. "A theater of refinement. Only the best, Miss Whaley, for a lady as refined as yourself."

Beatrice frowned. "I'm afraid you've misread me, sir. I can be surprisingly pastoral. There are few things I enjoy more than the shade of an apple tree."

Hamilton snorted. "Is that what you want? Fruit? If only I'd known it was that simple." He sighed. "Women. When will you break from the ways of Mother Eve and stop being tempted by apples?"

_Dear Mr. W,_

_ So much has happened since I last wrote, and I will save most of it to tell you in person. A short note just seemed necessary._

_ I haven't regretted a moment of my time here in New York. As much as I enjoy disagreeing with Mother and Father, those are the conceits of a young girl. They were right in sending me here. Mother told me, "family comes before all else", and I've found more than one reason to be proud of my Mulligan connections. (You will be surprised to learn what you already have in common!)_

_ Most importantly: I beg you not to worry more about Mr. Hamilton. He is a man of good intentions, but would not last a minute behind a plow. I much prefer a man with a back strong enough to support his convictions._

_ Again, forgive my brevity. Please send my very best to Dr. Warren and the rest of your family. I look forward to autumn, and harvest time._

_ Yours, B.W._

Beatrice quickly folded, sealed, and addressed the letter, as she heard the men's voices downstairs wrapping up their conversation. She ran down the staircase and pressed the note into the large, calloused hand of the post rider who stood just inside the Mulligan's door. The man glanced at the name on the letter and smiled.

"You know this will arrive safely, Miss Whaley."

He and Hamilton exchanged bows, and Hercules clapped their visitor on the shoulder. "Thank you again for the news, Paul. Have a safe ride home."

Beatrice stepped out after them onto the curbside, and watched as the man swung up into his saddle. She waved in gratitude.

"Thank you, Mr. Revere!"

The rider touched the brim of his hat in return, spurred his horse, and rode off. Beatrice watched until he turned out of sight up the street, headed north to Boston.


End file.
